XXXV

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?

      What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed,

      In mockery of monumental stone,

      The heavy heart heaving without a moan?

      If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,

      Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,

      Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,

The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.